Toronto! I love this city, and today’s torrential downpour and general gloominess won’t deter me from drowning myself in ramen broth at Momofuku, fortifying myself for our sold out show tomorrow at the Phoenix Theatre.

It’s a day off, and I’m allowing my thoughts to trudge through the ol’ cognitive molasses, embracing lethargy as a nourishing counterbalance to our hectic touring schedule and accepting that, well, today’s not the day for epiphanies, edifying commentary, or anything even passably eloquent. I’m in my hotel room, writing this in my underpants, and goddammit if it isn’t fantastic.

I’m also writing this while listening to Sigur Ros’s “( )”, an album sung entirely in Hopelandic, a made-up language consisting of gibberish words. There’s an ache and melancholy to the record that’s perfect accompaniment for counting the illuminated windows in an adjacent high rise, slipping in and out of gentle meditation on the nature of evolving dreams.

Or whatever. Again, while in my underpants.